


King’s Ransom

by mrs_d



Series: Dead Ends [9]
Category: due South
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Light Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 06:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: There's a wanted man on the loose, and Fraser gets assigned a new partner, which creates more than a few tensions with his current one. [originally written 2015]





	King’s Ransom

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another long fic I started while I was finishing grad school....

Fraser had been in the door fewer than fifteen minutes when his emergency line rang.

“RCMP,” he began, but the man on the other end cut him off.

“Fraser? Philips. We need you to come in.”

Fraser felt his forehead crease. “In, sir?”

“To Inuvik. Right away.”

“Sir, it will take me roughly an hour to —”

“That’s fine. ASAP, Constable.”

“I — Yes, sir.”

Philips broke the connection without another word. Fraser allowed himself one tiny sigh before snapping into action. He punched in the code that would forward any subsequent calls to the detachment office, though doing so worsened the knot in his chest. Then he gathered up his gear so recently set aside — gloves, jacket, hat, handgun, pemmican — and went right back out the door.

He did not, however, go straight to the jeep, though his duty (and commanding officer) demanded it. Instead, he looped around the house, following the rough gravel laneway to the barn. Dief was dozing in a patch of sun in front of the half-open door, from which Fraser could hear... something.

“She’s so glad, she’s telling all the world! That her baby buys her things, you know! He buys her diamond rings, you know! She said so!”

Ray’s voice, slightly off-key, echoed out from under the hood of a black SUV. He straightened to adjust the trouble light he’d hooked inside. Then, still singing, he did a graceful shuffle step back and a perfect spin to grab a tool off the workbench to his right. His voice faltered when he saw Fraser.

“She’s in love with me, and I feel — Fraser! Sheesh, you startled me. How long you been standing there? I mean, how was your day?” His grease-blackened fingers fumbled to turn the dial on the radio.

The tightness in Fraser’s chest eased somewhat. One day, he’d have to ask Ray how he did that.

“Not over yet, I’m afraid. I just received a call from Philips.”

“The new Sarge?” Ray interrupted. Fraser could see little grease smudges where he’d scratched his face and adjusted his glasses throughout the day.

“He wants me in town right away. Yesterday, as you would put it.”

“He say why?” Ray leaned on the nose of the SUV and pulled a rag from his pocket. One by one, his long fingers became a little cleaner.

“No.”

Ray was up like a shot. “Let me go with you. I can drive, you must be beat.”

Fraser smiled. “I’m okay. Besides, you’re not official.”

Ray looked away, his jaw tightening. Fraser felt a pang of guilt and absentmindedly wiped grease off Ray’s stubbly cheek with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, though, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Ray nodded, a sharp sudden jerk of his chin, then looked back into Fraser’s eyes, all trace of the fleeting hostility gone. “Be careful,” he insisted.

“Always.” Fraser kissed him, inhaled him. His scent — soap, sweat, engine grease, and leather — made it hard to turn away.

Fifteen minutes later, Fraser was on the Dempster heading North, and, if he were any kind of policeman, he’d be writing himself a ticket. Then he remembered Philips barking “ASAP, Constable,” and he decided that the driver in him could convince the cop in him that he had a good enough excuse for speeding.

Sometimes Fraser wished he — _they_ — had moved somewhere more remote after taking Muldoon down last March, but his patrol routes took him far enough to satisfy the occasional bouts of wanderlust, and there was always the cabin.

Besides, being close to town meant Ray could work. He repaired snowmobiles, ATVs, SUVs, and the occasional car. Still did some detective work, too, occasionally. All in all, it was quite a little business Ray had going. Fraser sometimes wondered if Ray’s services were in fact more valuable than his own. People he met on patrol often asked if Fraser thought _the mechanic_ would have any time to come up and take a look at something, or if he knew when _the mechanic_ would be home, so they could bring it by the garage.

Inuvik came into view, and Fraser checked his speed. Slowly, the houses became more closely grouped together, as if huddling for warmth, and then he was in town, using the brakes to get down to 50 before the sign.

Fraser was surprised by the number of pedestrians, though with the temperature in the teens and a long night of sunlight ahead of them, maybe he shouldn’t have been. He waited for a large group of brawny men, rig workers no doubt, to cross the street, noting their weaving trajectory. He briefly considered stopping them for public intoxication — punk in drublic, as Ray liked to say — but they seemed harmless enough. One of them even waved merrily when he saw the RCMP logo on the side of the vehicle. Fraser smiled a little and let it go. He had more important things to do, anyway.

There were six officers smoking cigarettes on the front steps of the detachment headquarters. Never a good sign, thought Fraser, pulling into the crowded parking lot. He nodded to a few as he approached, but most he didn’t know well enough to chat with.

“Benton!” someone called.

Fraser turned, only to find himself wrapped up in one of his sister’s trademark bear hugs.

“Hi,” Maggie cried, as they separated. “I haven’t seen you in, gosh, must be six months?”

“Yes, must be.” Fraser smiled as he looked her up and down. She wasn’t in uniform, and her hair had half come undone, but regardless he said she looked great. “What are you doing in Inuvik?”

“Visiting a friend for the day — do you know Jason Smoke?” Fraser shook his head mutely. “Anyway, my sergeant called, and I figured it’d be easier to meet at this detachment than drive all the way back to Fort MacPherson.”

Fraser nodded, and Maggie leaned a little closer. “Serious business,” she said in a low voice, and Fraser heard their father in her tone. “They’re rounding everybody up.”

“Oh,” said Fraser. He felt a little better knowing that Philips’ curt tone had had nothing to do with personal dislike.

The small crowd of smokers began shuffling into the building, and he and Maggie followed them into a large conference room. Fraser took a seat between Maggie and an officer whom he recognized, Dan Hope. The two men nodded at each other, but Maggie suddenly said something about coffee and sprang up again.

Approximately twenty Mounties were already gathered at the oval table. Most of them were out of uniform like Maggie. No one spoke to him, so Fraser put on his resting polite face to mask his troubled thoughts.

He was tired, worried, frustrated, and a bit sad. Maggie was such a mixed blessing. She was so like him, so like their father, it hurt. He hadn’t told her, yet, what had happened when he arrested Muldoon. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that they’d lost their father for a second time.

A mug of black tea, lightened with milk, appeared before him. “Thought maybe you’d like some,” Maggie explained. “Long day and all.”

Fraser felt a rush of gratitude. “Thank you kindly.”

“No problem,” she replied and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “So, how’s—”

But the room fell silent. Sergeant Philips, a tall man with a thick black moustache and grey eyes, had entered. His sure footsteps and ramrod posture said enough that every Mountie in the room changed attitudes — from collegial camaraderie to rapt attention — in seconds.

“Thank you all for coming,” Philips began gravely. “Especially given the short notice.” He picked up an enlarged mug shot off the table and attached it to the white board behind him.

“This,” Philips announced, pointing behind him, “is Lester T. King. Canada-wide warrant. As of now, the RCMP is conducting a manhunt.”

Fraser instantly understood and began to relax. Just a formality, he thought.

“Toronto Police Services and the OPP have recently concluded that King is also known as Anders Liefssen, who is believed to be responsible for three Ontario church bombings over the last decade.”

Fraser grimaced as he sipped his tea. He had only heard of one such bombing — the perils of spending so much time out of the country.

“Two nights ago,” Philips continued, “Toronto Police received a tip-off from one of King’s men. They were able to evacuate St. Joan’s Chapel and safely defuse the bomb.”

“Yeah!” cried one of the Mounties, and the room broke into applause. A small victory, Fraser conceded, clapping alongside the others, but one certainly worth celebrating.

Philips raised his hand, acknowledging the applause but also signalling that it should stop. “Story doesn’t end there, fellas,” he said.

In Fraser’s peripheral vision, Maggie frowned.

Philips clipped a second photo to the board. A slim face, framed by lank hair and accented with big dark eyes. “His victim,” Philips said seriously, and the mood of the room became sombre once more. “This is Tommy Glasson. He’s the one who tipped TPS about St. Joan’s. This morning, he was found dead in his apartment. Multiple stab wounds, tongue cut out. Forensics suggests he was alive when it happened.”

As one, the Mounties winced.

“Yeah,” Philips agreed. He added one more mug shot to the board. A woman with thick blonde curls, high cheekbones and pale eyes. She looked like she belonged on a magazine cover — or would, were it not for the name placard and the fact that she had a black eye and a broken nose.

“This is Pamela Green, King’s girlfriend, currently on parole for assault in Yellowknife.”

The room’s energy changed yet again as the police officers seemed to sit up straighter.

“Green returned to the Territories three days ago after being in Toronto, supposedly for a funeral, though we now question those circumstances. Since she has returned, she is unaccounted for.”

Fraser raised his eyebrows. He wondered if Green’s parole officer had lost their job over this fiasco. Though it seemed uncharitable, he found himself hoping that, if they hadn’t, they soon would.

“We have strong reason to believe that King will follow Green to the Territories, if he hasn’t already done so.”

“Where?” a young red-haired constable asked. Peters, Fraser thought his name was. “Yellowknife?”

“That’s the problem, son,” sighed Philips. “We don’t know where she is at this point, so it’s nearly impossible to predict where he’ll go.”

Across the table, Constable Jennifer Highwater, whose patrol area was directly adjacent to Fraser’s, raised her hand. “Sir, we’re a long way from Yellowknife. Do you really think—”

“Yeah,” interjected a male officer, cutting her off. “Why would she come _here_?”

Philips directed his answer to the interrupter, Fraser noted with irritation. “We don’t know that she would, Bluestone. But we must prepare for the possibility that they go North.”

Impulsively, Fraser leaned forward, a hand raised. “Pardon the intrusion, Sergeant Philips, but Constable Highwater,” he began, meeting her eyes across the table. She looked somewhat alarmed to be signalled out, so Fraser smiled. “Could you please finish your thought?”

Highwater blushed under Fraser’s gentle but curious gaze. He noted some of the male officers rolling their eyes in his direction.

“Certainly, Constable Fraser,” she replied, her shaky voice recovering its strength with each word. “I wanted to ask how likely it is that Green — and, by extension, King — would have made it to Inuvik in such a short timeframe.”

“Ah.” Fraser turned back to face the front of the room. Philips had grace enough to look a little embarrassed.

“Excellent question, Highwater,” he replied gruffly. “As of now, detachments from here to the capital are on high alert. If they’re on their way, we’ll find them. More likely they’re holed up somewhere, so we’re going to get out there, spread their pictures around and flush them out.”

He paused, glancing around the room to see if there were to be any further questions. When no one raised their hand, he nodded and went on.

“These people are brutal,” he said, “so nobody goes it alone.  Partners will be assigned through proximity — the details are in your briefing packages at the front desk. Pick them up on your way out.”  

The room began to fill with the rustling sound of the officers getting ready to leave, and Philips had to raise his voice a little to be heard.

“In an hour, the media blackout will end. King will know we’re looking for him. Stay close to your radios, keep your eyes open, be smart and be careful. Dismissed.”

Fraser pushed back his chair a little and turned to his sister. “Well,” he began. “This doesn’t happen every day.”

“Indeed,” she replied and finished her coffee. “I’ll have to head back tonight.” She stood and stretched, muttering something Fraser hadn’t heard since he’d returned from the States: “Bummer.”

He was so surprised that he laughed as he got to his feet, letting the room empty around them. “You know, Maggie, I’m only an hour away. The accommodations would be simple, but—”

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Constable Highwater looking up at him. She was shorter than Fraser had expected, and her big brown eyes reminded him of a doe’s.

“Just wanted to say thank you, Constable Fraser,” she said, but her eyes and her hushed tone were saying much more. “Would you like to go get a cup of coffee with me, or maybe a bite to eat?”

Beside him, Maggie was looking down at the table, trying to hide her grin. Fraser cleared his throat. It suddenly felt a little hard to get any air.

“Not right this minute, of course,” Highwater amended in a rush of words. “I just meant — well, we’ll be working together over the next few days, so I thought it might be nice to get to know each other.”

“Ah,” Fraser said again. His mind had stalled on the _working together_ part. “You mean—”

“Our areas overlap,” she replied. “We’ve been assigned to each other as partners.”

“Partners,” Fraser repeated. Like a one-two punch? A duet? he thought absurdly.

Fraser cleared his throat again, though it was unnecessary, and the dry cough hurt. “Well, uh, that makes — that makes sense,” he said, and all at once his confident politeness returned. “I look forward to working with you, Constable Highwater—”

“Call me Jen.”

“Understood. But I should get home. Long day.” He glanced down at his watch and was glad to see that he wasn’t lying.

Highwater’s face fell just a little before she hitched it back up. “Of course,” she replied, extending her hand. Fraser took it, shook it. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

With a nod at Maggie, who managed a polite smile, Highwater left the room. Fraser had to stop himself from opening the door for her; he was afraid to create the wrong impression.

He and Maggie were alone now. Fraser’s shoulders slumped, and he rolled his head back, so his eyes were on the ceiling. “Oh, dear,” he muttered.

Maggie was barely containing her laughter. “I cannot believe that still happens,” she said finally.

Fraser gave the ceiling a small sigh. “Yes. Well.” He shook his head and opened the door for her.

“Were you serious about your offer to stay?” she asked as they stopped at the front desk to pick up their information packets.

Fraser smiled. “Of course. You’re always welcome.”

Maggie flashed him a quick grin and nodded once, abruptly. The gesture was their father’s. He wondered if she knew that.

“Okay then,” she said. “I’ll go settle up with Philips, then follow you home.”

Fraser opened the King file as she walked away. Not good, he thought. King’s record was long and storied, dating back over ten years. It was stapled to a report about Anders Liefssen. Fraser skimmed it — a fine piece of detective work. Intuitive, detailed. He wondered what Ray would make of it.

* * *

Dief settled just inside the barn door as Ray got to work changing the SUV’s headlight. It was a finnicky job that either needed two people or a hell of a lot more patience than he was generally known for. He’d managed to get the grill off okay, but his tongue was between his teeth as he reached down with the ratchet to remove the inside bolt, craning his neck, trying to see the damn little thing. The heat of the trouble light was making him sweat, and his fingers were slippery.

So he couldn’t reach the radio dial like he normally would when the news started. The music slid through his ears straight down to his heart, which started to beat faster.  

“Good evening, Inuvik, it’s 11 pm, and I’m Tracy Song. Your news this hour: the RCMP has issued a Canada-wide warrant for Lester T. King in connection with a recent bomb threat in Toronto.”

God. Ray tried to steady his hand. That at least explained why Fraser had to go in so late.

“The Inuvik Detachment’s new Sergeant, Daryl Philips, said his officers are on high alert, since King may flee to the Territories.”

Ray dropped the damn ratchet. It clattered into the car as Philips started speaking. Without trying to, Ray translated the cop talk.

“We believe he may be on his way North—”

_If he’s not here already._

“King has a connection—”

_A  woman._

“—in the Territories, so it’s very likely he may be heading our way—”

_Damned if we know where he is._

“—so we remain vigilant.”

_If we don’t catch him, somebody’s getting fired._

The announcer’s smooth voice took over again. “King is described as 6 foot 3, roughly 200 pounds, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was last seen in black pants and a navy down jacket. The RCMP advises anyone who sees King to stay away, as he is considered armed and dangerous. Call police immediately at—”

Ray finally got his hand on the volume dial. He hadn’t realized how difficult it had started to be, just breathing. He wanted something to hit. He started to pace, trying to outrun feeling useless.

The worst of it was, Ray knew he’d never get used to it. Fraser tried to keep him in the loop, but when there was a big case or one of those late-night calls that cops always got, even here at the ass-end of the Arctic, he had to go it alone.

And Ray waited. Beside the phone. For half the story.

If only he could have gone with him tonight. _But you’re not official,_ Fraser had said, and now that Ray heard the story on the news before hearing it from him, he really wanted to hit something. _Not official_ hadn’t meant shit in Chicago, and they’d both known it. Fraser had had nothing even close to jurisdiction, but he still got to know every freaking detail. And go out on every case. The CPD didn’t shut him out, no sir.

Ray stopped pacing and tried to calm himself. He was doing that thing again, that fly-off-the-handle thing that always got him into trouble. He told himself (again) that it wasn’t Fraser’s fault that they could collaborate back home — _former_ home — and not here. And, to be fair, Fraser did have a little clout in Chicago, since he was the official liaison with the Canadian Consulate.

Not that their cases had much to do with Canada.

Then, suddenly, Ray was laughing. “That’s what I need,” he said out loud. Dief looked up. “A Chicago consulate in Inuvik. Maybe then we could get a good deep-dish pizza.” Dief let out a huff, then laid his head back on his paws.

Ray reached over to turn the volume up a little. Tracy Song was repeating the top story, which he did not need to hear again. He turned the radio off completely.

It had gotten better, though, Ray had to admit, as he got a flashlight down from the shelf, so he could start looking for his ratchet inside the SUV. It had gotten better since he got his license. Not that the Northwest Areas really needed many PIs, but it was detective work.

Plus, it meant the Mounties could bring him in as a private consultant sometimes, and that gig didn’t suck. He and Fraser shut down a smuggling ring, returned a teenager to her parents, and tracked some bank robbers from the Yukon. Just like Chicago, they took down the bad guys, usually with less gunfire, though. (This was Canada, after all.)

The sex didn’t suck, either. They hadn’t had that in Chicago, though Ray had no idea why not. It might have resolved some of their arguments faster. Their duet went on all night when they were working a case, and Ray was pretty damn glad they didn’t have any close neighbours.

An engine outside. Two. Ray swung the door open, and Dief ran out into the bright night, barking his head off.  

“Ray?” he heard. Then Fraser saw him, turned toward him, and smiled; most of Ray’s tensions faded. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Still working?” asked Fraser as he approached.

“Almost done,” Ray replied, bracing himself on the doorframe, leaning in for a better hello than that, but he didn’t get it because right then, another car door slammed and out stepped—

“Ray, you remember Maggie, don’t you?” A half-smile: Fraser knew damn well he remembered the last woman he’d ever kissed, but Ray wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Of course.” Ray stepped forward, extending his right hand. “Constable Mackenzie,” he said formally.

“Detective Vecc— Kowalski,” she answered, matching Ray’s formal tone and politely shaking his hand.

He grinned.

“Maggie’s going to stay here tonight before heading back to Fort MacPherson in the morning. I told her that was okay,” said Fraser.

Ray was noticing the way that Fraser and Maggie shared cheekbones. He suddenly realized that he was supposed to say something. “Yeah, yeah, of course. _We casa is su casa_ , and all that.”

Maggie took a breath. “Actually, Ray, I think the saying goes _mi casa es tu casa_ , although I’ll admit my Spanish is a bit rusty.”

Fraser was nodding sympathetically.

Sheesh. Ray had forgotten that cheekbones weren’t the only thing they shared. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ve just got to wrap up a couple things here,” he said, indicating the barn behind him with a jerk of his head. “Make yourself at home, Maggie.”

“Thank you kindly,” she answered, and this time Ray did roll his eyes.

Fraser and Maggie’s footsteps and polite conversation faded as Ray went back in the barn. He fiddled with the car a little longer, trying to get the ratchet out. After a minute, he said to hell with it, shut off the lights, and headed up to the house.

He went straight to the bathroom to wash up. When he came out, Fraser and his sister were sitting at the kitchen table, making sandwiches. She was laughing, and he was smiling that awkward smile. Ray leaned against the doorframe, out of Fraser’s sight.

“Seriously, Ben, how often does that happen?” Maggie was asking.

Fraser gave that funny little dry throat-clearing sound, and Ray knew exactly what Maggie was talking about. (The answer, by the way, was still a lot.)

Set on making a liar out of him, Fraser replied, “Not that often. Constable Highwater—”

“—she said to call her Jen.”

“Constable Highwater,” Fraser repeated firmly, “was just being friendly.”

“Sure she was,” said Ray. Fraser jumped. His discomfort was just too tempting, so Ray aimed below the belt. “And I’ll bet you were friendly right back. Never can resist a woman thinking you’re a god, huh, Frase?”

“Ray, I—”

But Ray was already laughing, pushing himself off the doorframe and heading over to lean beside Fraser. He slung an arm around his shoulder and kissed him on his shadowed cheek.

“I’m just razzing you,” he said softly. “I don’t mind if she looks.”

Fraser turned slightly; their mouths met, then Ray pulled away. “Who wouldn’t?” he added.

“Oh, she was looking all right,” Maggie chimed in. “Scoped him out real good.”

Fraser was turning redder, not that Ray thought that was possible. He moved to the chair opposite Fraser and pulled the loaf of bread toward him. The Mounties ate their simple supper as Ray prepared his. He let the silence hang for a minute before breaking it.

“So,” he began. “Canada-wide warrant for Lester T. King, huh. Got a woman in the area, probably already here.”

It happened so fast he almost missed it: Maggie glancing at her brother, Fraser giving her the _he’s cool_ nod that Ray had done for him so many times in Chicago, and Ray was blindingly  angry. The butter knife got slippery in his fingers, so he set it down.

“Yes, that about sums it up,” Maggie said. “How did you learn all that so fast?”

“I listen.” She’s a Fraser, he thought, she’ll figure it out.

“The media, of course,” she said after a few seconds.

Fraser asked, “What are they highlighting? The Toronto bombings or the murder?”

“Neither,” Ray answered, relieved. He knew it: the news always only gave pieces. “They said a recent bomb threat in Toronto, that’s all.” What he was really asking, though, was for Fraser to tell him the rest. He needed it.

“Hm,” said Maggie.

“Hm,” echoed Fraser.

“Hm,” sighed Ray snippily. “What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” answered Maggie right away.

Ray shot Fraser a see-how-annoying-that-can-be look. Fraser’s lips were twitching. He slid a folder across the table to Ray.

Paydirt. Ray straightened his glasses, then practically tore it open to find rap sheets, mug shots, crime scene photos and reports from the Toronto Police, the OPP, and the RCMP. He flipped through them, soaking in each pixel, each word, each letter.  

“Jeez,” he murmured when he got to the part about the church bombings. Seven people dead, thirty-five injured in the last ten years, fourth bomb prevented earlier this week at a small church in Toronto’s East end.

“Indeed,” said Fraser.

Ray read on, forgetting about his sandwich. It felt good to be reading case notes again, like checking the answers on his math homework and finding that he’d been doing it right all along. Like he knew what the hell he was talking about, that he was still a good cop, not just some wannabe PI fixing broken-down crap in the barn. He found himself tapping his heel, faster and faster, and then he was bouncing his leg with the energy of coming home.

* * *

Across the table, Fraser frowned, watching Ray twitch. Not taking his eyes off the file, Ray’s hand groped out, fumbling with the salt and pepper shakers to find the container of toothpicks. He shook one out roughly and shoved it into his mouth. Fraser could hear the wood clicking against his teeth as Ray manipulated it with his tongue.

For one fleeting, lusty moment, Fraser envied the toothpick.

Then he reminded himself that this had nothing to do with sex. Ray wanted a cigarette.

The table quivered nearly as much as Ray did, and Fraser wondered if including him was the right call. But he was a good cop — _former_ cop — and Fraser wasn’t about to refuse helpful advice. That would be like looking a gift horse in the—

“Boy, he gets right into it, eh,” said Maggie softly.

Fraser nodded at her, then returned his eyes to the taut mess that Ray had become.

Maggie leaned over. “Should he be reading that? I mean, he’s a civilian—”

“I trust him.” The words were out before Fraser had known they were coming.

Maggie gave him a long look. With an effort, Fraser pulled his gaze off Ray. He stared into his sister’s similar eyes for a moment, then Maggie nodded. Together, they rose to clear the table.

Ray looked up and leaned back in his chair. “So your job now is to, what, keep an eye out?”

“Pretty much,” said Maggie. “They’ve got us working in—”

Fraser shot her a look.

“—uh, the areas, asking around, keeping our eyes peeled for new faces, vehicles, anything suspicious.”

Ray was nodding. “So I’ll go out with you tomorrow. Four eyes are better than two,” he announced, getting to his feet in one of those fluid movements that Fraser loved so much. He took the toothpick out of his mouth and laid it down on the plate next to his uneaten sandwich. “And if you make a glasses joke, Maggie, so help me, God—” he added, pointing two fingers at her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.” He leaned on the table, flipping open the file again, turning the pages more slowly this time.  

“Come on,” Fraser said to Maggie. “I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”

Maggie trailed him down the little hall into the spare bedroom, which looked like a mix between an office and a record store. Fraser started taking the cushions off the pull-out couch.

“This is our all-purpose room,” he told her, “in case you couldn’t tell.”

“I like it. It kind of reminds me of...”

Fraser hoped she wasn’t about to say what he knew she was about to say.

“...Dad’s office. At the Consulate.”

Fraser said nothing.

“Have you seen him lately?” Maggie asked after a moment. “I mean, since you moved back?”

Fraser felt his throat go tight. “No,” he said.

Maggie nodded, apparently oblivious. She grabbed the couch’s lift bar at the same time as he did, and they pulled the sofa out together. “Too bad. It would have been nice to—”

“Maggie,” Fraser found himself saying. “There are clean sheets in the hall closet, would you mind—”

“Not at all.” And she was gone.

Fraser finished unfolding the mattress, then sat at the foot of the bed, looking out the window at the still-bright night. He wished there were a figure out there, patrolling the plain in a fur cap, carrying a rifle, but there wasn’t.

“Got ’em,” said Maggie behind him. He hastily wiped at his face before turning around.

“Thanks.” He was relieved to hear his voice returned to normal.

They made the bed in silence, then Maggie yawned.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” said Fraser. “If there’s anything you need and can’t find, please feel free to rummage through our possessions.”

This earned him a warm smile. “Thank you, Benton. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He pulled the door closed. Dief came down the hall and whined. “You want in with her, you knock like a civilized wolf,” Fraser told him, and he headed back to the kitchen, leaving Dief at the end of the hall looking forlorn.

Ray was washing their few dishes, still tapping his foot, chewing the toothpick again. His glasses were folded over the open case file.

“Ray,” said Fraser to announce his presence.

He whirled, all dancer’s grace and soapy hands. “Hey, Frase. Maggie go to bed?”

“Yes.” Fraser drew closer until his hands were on Ray’s hips. He couldn’t help touching him, not when they were alone. “Ray,” he said again, “let’s go out to the barn. I need to talk to you, and I don’t want to disturb Maggie.”

Ray was nodding, his eyes locked on Fraser’s mouth. Then he pulled back again, seeming to regain focus. “Sure,” he said.

A moment later, he joined Fraser at the door, pulling on outerwear. “This about the case?”

No sense in lying. “Yes.”

Ray followed him out to the barn and leaned against the work bench. Fraser stood in front of the black SUV, where he could admire the organized mess of machine parts and tools. When his eyes drifted back to Ray, though, about to compliment him on the state of the barn, Fraser found him with hard eyes and a narrow mouth, all cop. His quivering energy had been supplanted by a still focus.

“So, this guy,” Ray began, and his tone was harsh, “this King guy. He’s pretty brutal.”

“Yes,” said Fraser, though it wasn’t really a question.

“And I can’t go with you.”

Damn that intuition. “No.”

Hurricane Ray was gaining wind speed velocity. “So you’re supposed to, what, knock on doors till you find him? Show his mug shot to all the hunters and trappers and miners till you shake him loose?”

“More or less, yes.”

Ray pushed himself off the work bench. Here it comes, thought Fraser. “More or less?” he repeated. “More or less. Fraser, I don’t like this. Where’s the — where’s the SWAT and the armoured trucks and the—”

“Ray, this is the remote North.”

“Fine, armoured dog sled, then.”

“Ray—”

“Fraser.” The storm let up a little. “I don’t like this,” he said again, more quietly, his eyes on the floor.

Fraser went to him, taking his hand, trying to be reassuring. “I know. But I won’t be alone out there. I’ll have a partner.”

He hoped Ray would stop worrying about him. That he’d smile and understand.

But Ray didn’t. 

“ _A_ partner?” he repeated slowly. He’d gone deathly still.

The eye of the storm, thought Fraser suddenly.

“ _A_ partner. Not _your_ partner. Not _me._ ” Then, through the sneer came a voice Fraser couldn’t make sense of, let alone recognize as Ray’s: “Yalways gottabeezact donchu?”

Fraser replayed the words in his head until he understood them — _you’ve always got to be exact, don’t you?_ — while Ray yanked his hand away, strode over to the black SUV, and slammed its roof with his palm.

“So — so what, you go out with this guy—”

“Girl,” Fraser corrected automatically.

Ray whirled back, his eyes flashing. “Like it fucking matters, Fraser! My point is, you go out with the cops, out cross the frozen fucking tundra, chasing this sonofabitch, and I’m what —supposed to sit home an’ knit you a sweater?”

Fraser wasn’t sure he’d heard that properly. “Ray, what are you— ?”

“Nah.” Ray was coming at him. Fraser backed away, but Ray breezed right by him, bent down, and started digging through the contents of a shelf until he found a small package and a lighter.

“Ray,” Fraser chided.

With his back still turned, Ray raised a hand to silence him. Fraser blew out a breath in exasperation as the lighter clicked. When Ray turned around a moment later, he had a blue-grey halo. Fraser looked away, trying to stay angry, even though part of him loved how Ray looked wreathed in smoke. It reminded him of the day they met.

But those days were over, and, despite the inevitable moments of nostalgia, Fraser knew they were better off now, and that Ray was better off not smoking. He kept silent, though.

Ray started pacing, smoking half the cigarette before he stopped and spoke again. “Fine, Fraser,” he said, still facing away from him. “It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

Fraser’s polite response was mechanical, if not entirely true. “No need to apologize.”

Ray raised his hand again. “No, there is. I shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that. I just thought,” he took a drag, “I thought it’d be like old times.”

Fraser smiled. At least he wasn’t the only one occasionally nostalgic. “You mean the old times when we nearly got shot once a week?”

Ray tilted his head back and blew a long stream of smoke up to the ceiling. “Never mind,” he said finally. “You’re right, Fraser.”

But he didn’t turn around when he said that. Pride, Fraser supposed. He nodded, though Ray couldn’t see it. “I’m going to turn in for the night. You coming?”

Now Ray faced him. “Yeah, I just want to tidy up here first.”

Fraser didn’t like how Ray wouldn’t meet his eyes. He waited, wondering if Ray would say more.

At last, Ray coughed. “You know, this really _is_ a disgusting habit.”

Fraser raised his eyebrows. “You said it, not me.”

Ray almost smiled but didn’t. After an awkward silence, Fraser said goodnight and left the barn.

He walked slowly, thinking Ray would catch up. But he didn’t. Even after Fraser was ready for bed, there was still no sign of him, so he closed the curtains and lay down, wondering if he should go out after him. But before he could decide one way or the other, he was asleep.

* * *

Ray waited a long while before moving. Then he picked up an adjustable wrench and chucked it at the aluminum door that Fraser had gone through. It made a good-sized dent and a reassuring noise. His head was spinning from the nicotine.

And the fight.

He leaned back against the work bench and scrubbed at his face. The smell on his fingers made him crave another smoke, but he held off. It’d been a while; he didn’t want to make himself sick.

But fighting with Fraser always made him sick.

He sighed and went to the SUV, started to dig for the ratchet again. When he finally found it, he finished the job on the headlight. It kept his hands busy, so his brain could simmer.

And what bubbled up was his fear. His jealousy. The familiar feeling of being a failure.

Ray had to smoke another cigarette very slowly then because he started to get angry again — at Fraser, at Canada, at this stupid, cluttered barn.

He wondered if Fraser knew. Guy had a freaky habit of knowing stuff Ray didn’t say.

Then Ray remembered Fraser’s confused puppy look. He hoped, as he closed the hood, put away his tools, swept the floor, and shut off the lights, that Fraser was already asleep because he had no fucking clue what he’d say otherwise.

* * *

_Dief is leading. Small yips, the whuff of paws, swish of blades. Silent sun on snow._

A slight creak in the floorboards—

_Ray is walking away, leaving no footprints. Black against white terrain._

— and the sound of a dresser drawer sliding shut.

_“Don’t let him go, son!” His father is on snowshoes nearby._

The bed springs click—

_Delmar hanging upside down in the crevasse. “Out. Out’d be good.”_

—a warm arm brushing his his cool skin.

 _“_ A _partner. Not_ your _partner. Not_ me _.”_

Lips laced with tobacco, peppery and rich—

_Legs so heavy as he chases a point on the horizon._

—softly pressing against his neck.

_A pair of glasses in the snow beside a handgun._

“Ben. I’m sorry.”

* * *

Ray woke up alone. The black-out curtains were still drawn. He fumbled out of the sheets and checked his watch. 5:45. He’d only slept four hours. He groaned, knowing that he wouldn’t get back to sleep. Too many years of late night phone calls and hair triggers. He got too alert too quick. He pulled a t-shirt over his pyjama pants and followed the coffee smell to the kitchen.

Fraser and Maggie could have been twins in their street uniforms — navy pants with a red stripe, pale blue long-sleeved shirts, black ties — except Maggie had her holster on and Fraser didn’t.

“Morning,” said Maggie brightly.

“Hi. Coffee,” said Ray.

Fraser was leaning against the counter watching him like he was Threat Level One. Ray avoided his eyes as he poured coffee into his favourite mug and added sugar.

“Heading back already?” he asked Maggie to break the silence.

“Yes,” came her brisk reply. “Have to check in at my detachment by ten.”

Ray nodded and caught Fraser staring again. He looked away.

Maggie mumbled something about tidying up and then disappeared.

Ray wanted to speak. The words fell over each other in his throat like bowling pins.

_Fraser, I’m sorry. Again. I want to be your partner. I’m no good at being the one to keep the home fires burning._

On and on they went, and Ray suddenly realized that his mug was almost empty, and Fraser had left the room.

“Damn.”

* * *

Fraser waved as Maggie backed out of the laneway in her patrol car. His smile felt heavy.

There was a tiny, hesitant crunch of gravel behind him.

“Hey.”

Fraser closed his eyes and inhaled yesterday’s cigarettes, last night’s light sweat, this morning’s sweet coffee. He didn’t turn around but reached back. Ray’s hand was right where he knew it would be.

“She’ll be all right,” he said in Fraser’s ear.

Fraser squeezed. Ray knew him so well. The patrol car disappeared from their sight.

“Come on, Constable,” said Ray a moment later. He let go of Fraser’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Daylight’s burning... I think.”          

Ray led him inside and made them an omelette. Watching him flow through the kitchen, Fraser wished talking were as easy as dancing. He seemed utterly graceless at both.

* * *

As they were finishing up, the non-emergency line rang.

“That’ll be—” Fraser began, but he didn’t finish his sentence, instead hurrying to grab the receiver before the third ring.

Ray sighed. He hadn’t been able to get the words out.

“Ah, good morning, Constable Highwa— _Jen_.” He met Ray’s eyes as he forced the name out. Ray shook his head and returned to the coffee pot, but he was grinning.

“Yes, nine-thirty is fine. See you then.”

Ray leaned against the wall and sipped his fresh coffee. Fraser stood staring at the phone, absently rubbing an eyebrow.

“Pushy, huh.”

Fraser looked up and cleared his throat.

“Oh yeah, pushy.” Ray took another sip. “Got a Frannie on our hands?”

“Lord, I hope not.”

“Meh, what’s the harm?”

Fraser was staring out the window. When he turned back, Ray felt a little stab of sympathy for _Jen_. All he wanted to do was see Fraser smile.

But Fraser looked like he was trying to say something awkward. Ray decided to save him the trouble. He set down his coffee and took a deep breath.

“Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“I know, Ray.”

“It’s just— this is the kinda case we used to work together, you know. Back home?”

Fraser’s eyes had slipped down to the desk again, but Ray had to keep talking, prove that he could.

“So knowing you’re out there, that there’s this murderous bastard running around, while I’m—”

“I know.”

 _No you don’t_ , cried a voice in the back of Ray’s mind. Despite his new-fangled commitment to communication, he suppressed it.

“She’s a good cop,” Fraser said softly, looking out the window again. “She’ll watch my back. I’ll be fine out there.” His eyes drifted back over to Ray. “Even without you.”

Ray felt his teeth clench, and he made a conscious effort to relax. “I know that. I know all that, Fraser, but—” 

Fraser raised a hand to Ray’s face, cupping his jaw. “I’d rather have you.”

That really wasn’t what Ray was looking for, but Fraser’s hand was so warm, his eyes were so worried, that Ray decided to take the words the way they were intended. Talking could wait. He pulled at Fraser’s other hand, checked his watch.

“You know, it’s only seven-thirty. You can have me for two more hours.”

Barely a moment’s hesitation before Fraser was kissing him. Ray grabbed at Fraser’s tie with his right hand, twisting a fistful of blue shirt with his left, when Fraser suddenly pulled back.

“What’s wrong?”

Fraser started undressing rapidly. “I just pressed this uniform,” he muttered.

Ray rolled his eyes, putting Fraser’s hands on his clothes instead. “Allow me,” he insisted.

Ray undid the tie and draped it over a kitchen chair, then started unbuttoning Fraser’s freshly pressed cop shirt. Meanwhile, Fraser was loosening the drawstring on his pyjama pants, which Ray found very distracting in a very good way.

“This hardly seems fair,” Fraser murmured against his neck. “I have significantly more clothing—”

“Fuck fair, Fraser,” replied Ray. The blue shirt was finally untucked and open, revealing Fraser’s chest. He set to work on the belt buckle while licking Fraser’s ear and feeling him shiver. “I’m just glad you’re not wearing your gun belt.”

Fraser’s hands moved up suddenly over Ray’s shoulders and down the upper part of his back, like his holster was still there, like it needed to be pulled off and draped over a chair, too. Stupid Canadian gun laws, thought Ray suddenly, then he laughed a little.

“What’s so funny, Ray?” asked Fraser, now caressing Ray’s nipples under his shirt.

“Nothing, Benton.” He pulled his hands back, and Fraser’s cop pants slid to the floor. Fraser stepped out, then turned and bent to collect them from the floor.

Works every time, thought Ray with a wicked grin. He cupped Fraser’s ass, allowing his fingers to wander, checking out the hot tourist spots. Fraser inhaled sharply, then leaned back against Ray’s hips. Ray pulled off the blue shirt, tossing it toward the chair. Fraser made a movement like he was going after it, but Ray started kissing his shoulders and neck, then gripped him from the front to keep him where he was. This earned him a little moan that became a decent attempt at a sentence.

“Ray, just — hang on... the uniform...”

“Fuck the uniform, Ben.”

Ray turned Fraser around and started dancing him toward the bedroom, pulling off his t-shirt and stepping out of his pants as they went. He pushed Fraser back, just a little, when they reached the bed, and he sat, pulling Ray onto his lap.

“Mm,” said Ray into Fraser’s mouth.

“Mm?” said Fraser.

Ray started to slide down Fraser’s body, leaving wet spots everywhere. “Just making sure this is okay,” he said, mapping the geography, marking his territory.

“This is... far beyond okay,” gasped Fraser.

Ray was on his knees now, breathing on him, caressing him slowly. He knew Fraser liked to wait. Patience wasn’t really one of Ray’s virtues, but he was learning.

After long minutes like this, Fraser was squirming with want. Ray took him into his mouth, sudden, deep, and fast. Fraser’s startled gasp nearly pushed Ray over the edge himself. Fraser started rocking his hips a little, getting into a rhythm that Ray matched eagerly, moving his hand up to meet his lips until he knew, he could tell Fraser was on the edge.

He spoke around Fraser, hoping the vibrations would be enough. “Come for me, Ben.”

It worked. Ray found himself flooded with warm, salty-sweet pleasure. He swallowed, working the tip with his tongue until Fraser relaxed and his fingers in Ray’s hair told him it was his turn.

“C’mere,” said Fraser hoarsely, and damned if that voice didn’t get Ray’s legs quaking. Fraser stood and pulled Ray up with him, but instead of taking Ray’s place on the floor, he pushed gently until Ray was on his back, then he crawled up and, without any warning, started sucking.

“Jesus, fuck,” muttered Ray.

“Not right now,” said Fraser around him, and yeah, Ray had been right, the vibration was pretty damn good.

“I won’t last,” Ray managed to choke, which he knew right away was a mistake because Fraser, who liked to wait, pulled his mouth away.

Ray opened his eyes to see Fraser watching him intently, shiny lips curling up in a smile only a hair’s breadth away from him. Then Fraser slid out his tongue, caressing the swollen head of Ray’s cock.

Ray moaned a little as the wave started building. He tried to thrust up into Fraser’s mouth — make him finish him off, dammit — but Fraser’s hands pressed Ray’s hips back into the mattress. The strength, the resistance in those big, warm hands pushed Ray into coming, and there was Fraser’s mouth, right where he needed it to be, to catch him as he fell.

He must have dozed off because suddenly Fraser’s cheek was against his bare chest. Ray sleepily draped an arm around his shoulders. All those complicated words he’d wanted to say were slipping away, one by one. Why had he thought they were important again? Instead, he murmured the only thing that mattered into Fraser’s soft hair.

“I love you.”

He could hardly hear himself, but Fraser had good ears. “And I you.”

* * *

After perhaps twenty minutes of blissful relaxation, Fraser raised his head. His brain was filling up, as it always did too soon afterwards, with jobs needing to be done. He extricated himself as delicately as he could from Ray’s warm grasp, checking his watch as he did so. He still had time to finish his to-do list.

Ray shifted in his sleep.

Ray: check, thought Fraser with a self-satisfied grin.

Now he just had to give the dogs a run, have a quick shower and—

“Ben?” Ray’s eyes were half-open.

“It’s okay. Go back to sleep, Ray,” Fraser said gently.

Ray nodded, and his eyes fluttered shut. Fraser turned away, only to hear the bed rustling. He frowned as Ray made his way to the dresser.

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t sleep.” Ray grabbed some clean underwear and an old pair of black jeans.

“You were sleeping a minute ago.”

“That was a minute ago.” He zipped his fly and buckled his belt, then he looked up, seemingly surprised to find Fraser’s eyes on his. “What?”

“Nothing. I just assumed you’d want to sleep more.”

Ray paused in stretching up into a sweater. For a second, Fraser thought he was going to argue — though what they’d be arguing about was a complete mystery — but the moment had passed by the time the sweater came back down.

“Too much coffee,” Ray replied, beginning to root through his sock drawer.

“Ah.” There it is again, Fraser thought. Between the casual, the trying-too-hard-to-be-casual, the serious, the kidding, the coy, the mock-angry, the really angry, and the post-coital rasp, Fraser felt he was developing a case of Ray tone whiplash. He reached out to still Ray’s hands.

“Ray, what is it?”

Ray wouldn’t look at him. “I don’t like this. You. Out there. Chasing a murderer.”

Third time’s the charm, thought Fraser irritably. “You’ve made _that_ perfectly clear,” he said, sounding more snippy than he’d intended to. “But you also know it’s my duty, Ray.” He bit his tongue before he could become more rude.

After a slight twitch, Ray went entirely blank. Fraser could practically hear the shutters swing shut behind his eyes. A second later, he withdrew his hands from Fraser’s and found a pair of socks. He pulled them on silently, and when he looked back up, his mouth — not his eyes, just his mouth — was smiling.

“Dogs?” he said.

Fraser felt another wave of annoyance. Fine, he thought. If Ray wanted to play games, he could bluff right back. He smoothed his features. “You go ahead. I need a shower.”

“Okay.” And Ray walked away without another word.

* * *

Hanging out with the huskies always made Ray feel better. In the summer, because they weren’t sledding, they had a lot of energy to chase him around. Ray threw tennis balls (and a stick for Pepper Jack), let Queenie tackle him, and rubbed Musket’s belly while he was on the ground.

While he was still down there, covered in mud and paw prints, another RCMP jeep pulled into the laneway beside Fraser’s. A woman was driving, and she looked mighty confused to see a herd of dogs swarming the car and Ray climbing to his feet. He waved. The driver raised her fingers off the steering wheel but then turned to the in-car computer. Checking the address, Ray figured. He looked nothing like the Mountie she was trying to find.

Ray whistled to get the dogs away, and by the time he’d got them back into the kennel and latched the door, she was stepping out onto the gravel. Her eyes lit up as he headed back in her direction, and for a second Ray felt sexy, mud and all, but then he heard the house door close.

Of course. In the eyes of a woman, he was invisible next to that.

While she eyed him — and Maggie’d been right, she was scoping Fraser out real good — Ray figured it was fair to do some scoping himself. Not like she’d notice anyhow.

Constable Highwater — now that he could see her, Ray refused to think of her as _Jen_ — was shorter than he’d expected. Didn’t the Mounties have height restrictions? He leaned his head a little to the side. Decent rack. Pants hugging her ass in a good way. Shiny brown hair in a low bun. Soft mouth, high cheekbones, big, dark eyes.

Which were trying like hell to undress _his_ Mountie. Ray turned around, embarrassed for Fraser, expecting to see him red-faced and coughing up a storm, but Fraser wasn’t even looking at her. His eyes were locked on Ray’s as he drew nearer, his face clouded. Ray wondered if he should duck, since the last time he’d seen Fraser looking so determined, they were by the lake, and Fraser was pulling back his right fist.

He can’t seriously be jealous, Ray thought wildly.

But somehow he felt that Fraser’s look had nothing to do with _Jen_ and everything to do with the way he’d clammed up when Fraser pissed him off earlier. Ray squirmed, getting why criminals confessed to Fraser, even when Ray was doing his whole “kick you in the head” routine. He opened his mouth—

And Fraser walked right by him. Clearly, now wasn’t the time for confessions.

“Good morning, Jen.” His voice sounded warm and polite. Normal. 

“Hi.” She seemed a little breathless, much to Ray’s annoyance. “Ready to go?”

“Indeed.” Fraser pulled open the passenger side door and waved nonchalantly at Ray. “See you later,” he called.

“Yeah,” Ray answered, but the door was already closed.

Hell, Fraser didn’t even look back as they drove away.

 


End file.
